A Certain Shade of Green
by htbthomas
Summary: Tommy realizes when Oliver said, "I'm happy for both of you," it didn't mean he was ever going to truly let Laurel go. Set post-1.18.


**Notes**: My current Arrow fixation knows no bounds, and I have so many feelings about Tommy right now. His characterization in this fic is based on interviews with Colin Donnell and spoilers/speculation for the last part of Season 1. Thank you _so_ much to innerbrat and veritas724 for the beta help.

AU for post-1.18. Written for trope_bingo, for the prompt, "Locked In."

* * *

Tommy looks down at the crumpled napkin in his hand. The paper shakes between his fingers, harder with every gunshot and crash of glass behind him. The thought of what might be happening to the club he's worked so hard to build is less important than the safety of the woman beside him. Laurel's breathing is loud in his ear, as she trembles and gasps at the violence she must be seeing. He punches in the series of numbers scrawled on the napkin—there's a beep and a burst of pressurized air that rushes over the hairs on his forearm. Tommy throws an arm around Laurel's waist, lifts and spins her over the threshold, pulling the door to the basement closed with a bang.

They're safe.

A sense of temporary relief turns his bones to jelly and he falls against the corrugated metal door.

"Oh my god, Tommy, are you okay?" Her fingers travel over his chest and sides, checking for bullet wounds.

"I'm okay," he says, trying to catch his breath. "You?"

"Fine, I'm fine. Maybe a couple of scratches from the glass. But..." Her eyes dart to the digital lock on the door. "What about Oliver? He's still out there."

"He'll be all right," Tommy says before he can stop himself. Quickly he adds, "He knows the lock code." Only Oliver and his team know it now, after Helena barged in during her last visit to Starling City.

The sound of a particularly loud crash filters through the door. Laurel tries to push past him. "I don't care what he said, I'm going back out there. He's going to get himself killed..." She pushes at the door—it doesn't budge. She huffs with frustration. "What is the code?"

Tommy puts a firm hand on her wrist. "Oliver said to get you to safety, Laurel."

She turns determined eyes on him. "The code."

He holds her gaze with just as much ferocity. There's no way in hell he's going to let her go back into that melee, armed with nothing but her fists and feet. And especially not when Oliver has a better chance of getting them all out of this alive. He may not trust Oliver with the truth, but he trusts him with his life.

But before he can argue this, Laurel reaches into his palm and snatches away the crumpled napkin, turning away to read it. She freezes then, and the napkin flutters to the floor. "It's..."

His annoyance vanishes. "What? What is it?" He places a hand on her shoulder.

"The code..." What she says punches him in the gut, hard. "It's my birthday."

* * *

_Earlier_

Tommy presses his lips against her cheek, breathing in Laurel's scent. "You didn't have to come down here, babe. Don't you have work in the morning?"

"I wanted to. I'm between cases—I can afford to come in a little late once in a while. Besides." She kisses him slowly, softly, with the promise of more later. "I haven't seen enough of you this past week."

He shrugs, regretful. "Sorry, everything with the club is just..."

She caresses a hand down his arm. "I understand. You want this place to succeed."

He smiles. "Yeah. I really am almost done; let me finish up a couple things and we can take off."

Oliver is somewhere in the club, still, though it's at least an hour past closing. He's been around a lot this week, surprisingly. Tommy doesn't know why—maybe the other rich assholes Oliver liked to target were lying low, or he was taking a break from target practice as an apology to Tommy. Either way, it was nice, there was still more than enough work for both of them.

The work lights in the foyer go out—the glaring blue ones have been off since the last tipsy reveler stumbled into a cab—and Tommy frowns. "Hey, I could have gotten those on my way out," he calls toward Oliver, who must be at the doors.

"It was no trouble," an unfamiliar voice says.

Tommy looks toward the dim figures coming into view, three, maybe four men. "Sorry, gentlemen, Verdant is closed until tomorrow night." He gestures around at the empty tables and dance floor, trying to keep his tone light. But in his bones he knows something isn't right. In fact, nothing has felt right since Oliver-as-vigilante helped him save his father's life, and he doesn't know if that's coloring everything for him... or making him more sensitive to danger.

The man who had spoken comes fully into view, flanked by a taller man on either side. "Or it could be closed forever."

Tommy frowns and opens his mouth to demand what the hell the guy means when Oliver suddenly appears. "What's all this?" he asks mildly, drying his hands on a bar towel, his cheshire grin in place. Tommy can't believe he never saw through that before.

"You boys," the man says, voice dripping with disdain, "took a big chance opening a fancy nightclub here in the Glades."

"I like taking chances," Oliver answers, unperturbed. He takes a step forward. "The Glades needs another chance, if you ask me."

"Aw, that's sweet. Isn't that sweet?" the man asks his 'buddies,' who hardly react. "How lucky we are to have such a high-minded new resident!"

Tommy puts a protective arm around Laurel's waist and takes a step backward. These guys aren't here to discuss the gentrification of the Glades. And he's sure Oliver sussed that out even before Tommy had. He sees then that Laurel is surreptitiously digging in her purse, face growing more alarmed by the second. "What's wrong?" he whispers to her.

"My phone, it's—"

"Looking for this, Miss Lance?" the man asks, holding up Laurel's phone in one hand. Tommy tenses. How long had they been lying in wait if he been able to pickpocket her phone? The man spins the phone in his fingers as he adds, "Wouldn't want to worry your cop father."

"Why would he need to worry?" Laurel asks, surging forward to get in his face.

"No reason." He spreads his hands, dismissing Laurel with a condescending look. "As long as Mr. Queen and Mr. Merlyn here take me up on my offer."

Oliver tilts his head in mock-confusion just as Tommy sets his jaw. They both know where this is going. It doesn't matter how many Bertinellis or Vanches the Hood gets off the street, another will take their place.

"This is an awfully strange way to make an offer." Oliver says, stepping forward. "Surely you could make an appointment; hammer something out with our attorneys..."

The man's smile grows wide and confident. "It's not that kind of arrangement, Mr. Queen."

Tommy's eyes flicker around the room. Are there just three of them, or are there others? He runs through a list of possible ways out of this, glances at Oliver...

It's too late. Laurel suddenly breaks free of Tommy's protective hold and knees the man in the groin, then spin kicks the phone out of his hand. It skitters across the floor, and she chases after it. Her fingers close over the case...

A gun cocks. "Leave it there, doll."

Laurel looks up to see one of the two goons has his gun trained on her. "Doll?" she asks. "Seriously?"

Tommy's heart swells at her bravery, as his stomach drops at the same time. Has she always flaunted danger like this? Or only since Starling City gained its own guardian angel?

She lifts the phone anyway, and the goon takes a warning shot, blasting a fist-sized hole in the polished floor just inches from her hand. She curses and drops it quickly, turning in her crouch to look up at Tommy with a touch of real fear.

The ringleader, voice tight with pain, adds, "And if either of you pretty boys gets the idea to call for help, I assure you, the next time, my colleague won't miss." He holds out a palm. "In fact, why don't you hand your phones over now?"

Tommy slowly reaches into his pants pocket. "Whatever you want, just..." Removing the phone, he places it into the man's palm with a firm, "...leave her alone."

He gives Tommy a disconcertingly oily smile and turns toward Oliver. "And yours, Mr. Queen?"

"Oh. Right." Oliver reaches into his jacket. Tommy tenses. These guys have no idea who they're actually threatening. Will he bring out a weapon? Reveal his skills? But when his hand reappears, it's to hold out his phone.

"Give it here," the man demands, impatient. "And then we can discuss terms."

Oliver takes a stumbling step, and the phone flies out of his hand to land at the man's feet. "Sorry..." The man smirks and bends down to pick it up...

The next few seconds are a blur.

Oliver sprints forward to whip the bar towel into the man's face, and then sends him reeling backward with a kick into one of the support pillars. Only a moment later, Laurel is tackling the goon with the gun trained on her around the legs, knocking him backward and to the floor. His gun goes off again, and the bullet strikes one of the light fixtures, raining down glass on both of them.

Tommy looks toward the third man, but Oliver is already pummeling him with one fist and breaking the guy's wrist with his other hand. The man lets out an agonizing scream and crumples.

Without sparing another glance for Oliver—he can handle himself—Tommy runs toward where Laurel is wrestling on the floor with the still-armed goon. He kicks the guy's wrist, and the guy's fingers spasm open to drop the gun. Laurel seizes the opportunity and elbows the goon in the mouth. His head slams into the floor—he's knocked out.

"Are you okay?" he asks Laurel, trying not to panic.

She nods once, and he helps her to her feet. She sees the two men lying prone at Oliver's feet and looks up into his face with shock. "Did you—?"

She doesn't get a chance to finish. Suddenly a burst of machine gun fire comes from the entrance; the downed thugs did have reinforcements after all. A voice shouts, "Nobody move!"

Tommy looks at Oliver, whose eyes are narrowed to slits as he assesses the situation. Danger thrums from him in waves. "Get behind the bar," he murmurs low.

Laurel's voice shakes. "Ollie?"

"Go!" he grates at them.

Tommy grabs Laurel's hand and runs, just as a fresh burst of machine gun fire begins. They slide behind the bar just in time, a trail of bullet holes scattering across the artistic gears decorating the wall above them.

"What is going on?" Laurel asks, eyes wide and terrified. "I thought they just wanted protection money. But this? They're not going to get anything if they kill you."

He doesn't comment on Laurel's use of the word 'you' instead of 'us.' "I don't know," he tells her honestly. "Maybe they're after us for other reasons. Any one of us," he adds, though he strongly doubts the attack has anything to do with him or Laurel. Have Oliver's activities become known to the criminal underworld? Did they make a connection from Helena Bertinelli to Oliver, or are there even more layers to Oliver's secret life than Tommy has been able to peel back so far?

She seems to realize at that moment that Oliver did not follow them behind the bar. "Where's—?"

There's a crash—it sounds like a table being split in half—and Oliver comes vaulting over the top of the bar, landing lightly as a cat, despite his expensive suit and Italian leather shoes. "Are you all right?" he asks gruffly.

Laurel blinks. "Y-Yes. Are you? How did you do that...?"

"Been adding a little gymnastics to your gym routine?" Tommy asks with a raised eyebrow, trying to give Oliver an out.

He expects Oliver to just laugh it off, but instead he shrugs. "Something like that." His mild facade is completely absent as he pierces Tommy with a look and continues, "They've blocked off the exits—we're trapped in. You have to get Laurel downstairs, to safety, and call for backup."

"Downstairs?"

Oliver doesn't respond to Laurel's question, grabbing a bar napkin from a stack below the counter. Scrawling a series of numbers on it, he shoves it at Tommy. "The door code. I'll cover you—go!"

"Cover us? With what?" Tommy doesn't see any weapons.

"I'm good at improvising." He flips a bottle of absinthe into one hand and Midori into the other and stands, tossing them like throwing knives. There's an 'oof' and a crash, and then another burst of gunfire that cuts off suddenly. He tosses them another glance, before shouting, "I said go!"

* * *

_Now_

Laurel shakes herself from her confusion and types in the code. The lights beep red, not green. She pushes on the door and nothing happens. "Damn, there must be a different code to get out than in." She turns to peer into the dim light of the rest of the empty room, where a few shafts of street light are streaming down from tiny windows in the ceiling.

He's not sure whether to be relieved or nervous that neither John Diggle nor Felicity Smoak are here. It _is_ the middle of the night, they must have lives of their own to go home to.

"I've never been in this room before. Is there another way out?" Laurel, as usual, is channeling her fear into action.

"I..." Tommy doesn't know how to answer, so he goes with the truth. "...I don't know. I don't think so."

"Didn't you... build this club?" she asks. Her voice sounds more teasing than questioning.

"Um, yeah?" He laughs, glad to lighten the mood a little. But inside, his stomach is churning. The code was Laurel's birthday. And Oliver only took action with the thugs when it was Laurel who was directly threatened. He didn't even seem concerned at showing his skills in front of her. What does that mean? "This is something Oliver put in." Without his knowledge, Tommy doesn't add. "I don't really come down here much."

"There must be a phone—didn't he say to call for backup?" Before Tommy can stop her, she flips on a light switch next to the door.

The lights come on blindingly bright, and Laurel holds a hand up to her eyes. Tommy has been downstairs only a few times before, once under duress; to tell the truth, he's been avoiding it while he regains his footing from the revelation that knocked him over like a tidal wave. He tries to make out what's here as his eyes struggle to adjust. Wasn't there a rack of arrows last time? He leaps up, and goes down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Looks like some sort of panic room..." Laurel calls down from the top of the stairs.

It's not a panic room, it's a lair, but Tommy has promised Oliver not to tell anyone about the Hood—not even the woman he loves. But how is he supposed to keep a secret like this when she's also the smartest woman he knows?

When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he turns in a quick circle. He doesn't see anything that immediately points to Oliver's identity as the vigilante—no arrows, no leather suit hanging on the wall—but there are plenty of unusual items. For example, why does a nightclub owner need a bank of computers out of a spy movie, or martial arts training equipment? What is in the old and heavy wooden chest that looks like it spent five _hundred_ years on an island? He doesn't know how he's going to explain _any_ of it.

Hell, he doesn't understand most of it, himself. The more he's looked into Oliver's cold, determined eyes the last few weeks, the more he's realized that a completely different man inhabits the shell of his best friend. Former best friend? He isn't sure what they are to each other right now.

But whatever they are to each other, Oliver is out there risking his life to save his and Laurel's. Especially Laurel's, he thinks with a touch of angry despair. And Tommy wants Laurel's safety and well-being just as much, even if he _isn't_ some sort of leather-fetishist American Ninja Warrior wannabe.

He takes a deep breath.

Wow.

He's deep in the anger phase right now, isn't he? He has to try to control it, or he might end up making a stupid mistake that gets them all killed. "I don't really know what he uses the room for." Once again, that's true—since Tommy hasn't wanted anything to do with Oliver's extracurricular activities. As he speaks, he realizes there's no phone he can see anywhere. He scans the bank of computers next, trying to decide which one to start with. "Maybe a gym?"

"For the gymnastics?" He turns to see her trailing her fingers along one of many leather-wrapped poles sticking out of a man-sized contraption, her lips pursed in thought. He has no idea what it's for.

In answer, Tommy shakes his head. Best to get her mind back on getting out of here and saving all of their asses. He jiggles a mouse at random, and all of the screens come to life, startling him. Thankfully there is no arrow insignia on the log-in screen, it's just a simple, unadorned blue, with an entry box.

What is the password? He immediately tries the Laurel-birthday-password, but the box flashes red once around the edges. _INCORRECT PASSWORD._

He feels Laurel at his shoulder. "You don't know the password, either? Just what is it that he needs to hide from _you_, Tommy?"

Tommy gives her what he hopes is an easy shrug. "You know as well as I do what a private person he's become."

"Hmm," she says in assent. "Have you tried the date the _Queen's Gambit_ went down?"

"No..." But when he tries it, the box flashes red twice and the words read, _INCORRECT PASSWORD. ONE MORE ATTEMPT._

A loud _boom_ resounds from the other side of the heavy steel door, making them both jump. His heart starts pounding, and it takes him a couple of seconds to calm down. He tells himself that if the battle is still going on up there, then Oliver must still be alive and fighting.

"Oh my god, what was that!" Laurel turns her head from side to side, searching the room. "Isn't there a phone down here somewhere?"

"I didn't find one..." He weighs his options—let her explore or let her see what he's about to type in—and decides. "...but maybe you'll have better luck. See what I didn't."

"Okay."

He waits until she's on the other side of the desk before typing _thehood_ into the box. After a moment, the box flashes three times, and then the entire screen is consumed with a graphic of a fireball, with the words _POSSIBLE SECURITY BREACH, SYSTEM SHUT DOWN_.

Tommy chuckles at the black humor. "Where there's Smoak, there's fire, huh?" he murmurs.

"What's funny?" Laurel asks.

"Oh, just—"

Then the room is plunged into total darkness, steel shutters clanking into place over the few tiny windows.

Laurel screams, and he can't stop a shout of surprise himself. "Don't worry," he assures her, though he feels far from assured himself, "I hit a... a firewall." Heh. "It triggered a system shutdown."

"No, I'm fine, just surprised." Her breath sounds louder in the blackness, he's more in tune to it than the noise going on upstairs. "I can't see anything."

"Stay there. I'll come to you." As he makes his careful way toward the sound of her voice, he hopes that when he triggered Felicity's security measures, it also automatically notified her. Or Diggle. At least now he doesn't have to worry about Laurel seeing anything she hasn't seen already.

His seeking hands touch hers, and he pulls her close. "Tommy," she breathes.

"Laurel." He wraps his arms around her. Even though it's black as pitch, they're safe, for now. And they have each other.

Tommy just holds her for a long time, the noise upstairs seeming more and more like a dream, like something that can't touch them here. After a while, they feel blindly for a spot on the floor against the wall, and sit there together.

"Tommy," she says again, voice hesitant. "This place... this is Oliver's base, isn't it?"

He stills, holding his breath. He knows she can feel him freeze up, but he honestly doesn't know how to respond. Finally, he says, "He's never really shown me what he does down here."

"But he's down here a lot, right?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "It makes sense. A hidden room under his club—accessible by a door I've never noticed before. A place he can go to plan and train... and be himself." She pauses for a moment. "He's never really himself around us, is he?"

"Whatever that is," Tommy says, trying not to let as much bitterness show in his voice as he feels. "The Oliver I knew died on that island."

"Exactly. And no matter which... face... he shows me, it's never the true face of the Oliver that lives now."

Tommy realizes that Laurel is struggling just as much as he is to keep Oliver's secret. She's clearly figured it out, but to be safe, she's talking in vague generalities just as much as Tommy is.

"I wish he felt he could really trust us with it, with all of himself." It's then he realizes that her voice isn't angry, it isn't resentful, it's... concerned and wistful.

If she guesses the truth, and she's not horrified, then... just how much time did Laurel spend with the vigilante? How many cases did they work together? Another flare of pain hits him as it dawns on him that Oliver only pretended to let go of Laurel, gave Tommy an empty blessing to pursue a relationship with her, and all the while he was seeing her on the side.

"I don't," Tommy says, his voice breaking with all the pain of losing his best friend for real, more permanently than when he thought he was dead at sea. At least then, he had the memories of a lifetime friendship cut short. Now even that is tainted. "I'm afraid of what I would see."

"Tommy..." She draws him closer, stroking his hair gently. And despite how tightly she holds him, inside he feels like an ever-widening gulf is coming between them. Unlike Oliver, he can't just leap it without a second thought.

Laurel straightens, sitting up. "It's stopped," she says, just as he notices the same thing. The battle upstairs is over. Who was the victor?

They hear a series of beeps and a hiss of air. It's Oliver, it must be. He struggles to get to his feet, helping Laurel up at the same time. There's a figure silhouetted in the doorway, hooded and silent.

_Oliver?_ he wants to say, wishes he could say, but even after his and Laurel's conversation, he's afraid to.

Instead, Laurel speaks. "Is everything all right?"

His voice drifts down to them, altered by a voice modulator. "Yes. You're safe now."

Tommy has no idea how Oliver managed to fight off what must have been a whole battalion all by himself, _and_ change into his leathers. "Thank you," Tommy says, and he receives a nod in return.

"Is... is Oliver all right?" Laurel asks, biting her lip.

There's a pause, long enough that Tommy wonders whether Oliver is going to come clean right then and there.

Laurel doesn't wait for an answer. She breaks from Tommy's arms, running up the steps toward the vigilante. When she is halfway up, the figure steps aside to reveal Oliver coming from behind him, jacket off, dress shirt soiled and torn. He leans against the doorway to support himself.

Laurel halts. She looks at the Hood, down to Tommy and back again, then calls out with confusion, "Ollie?"

"Tommy, Laurel... I'm okay," Oliver looks winded and slightly wounded, but manages a weak smile.

That's all it takes to send her flying up the rest of the stairs and into his waiting arms. "I'm so glad."

The Hood slips past them and down toward Tommy, lifting the edge of the hood just enough so Tommy can see who is underneath. Diggle nods again solemnly, and whispers, "The police are on their way."

He looks back up toward Oliver and Laurel, still locked in a relieved embrace. He wonders, uncharitably, if she would react the same way if he were the one separated from her and in danger? He immediately hates himself; as well as being the smartest woman he knows, Laurel is also the most caring and selfless. It's Oliver that he knows he has to worry about, especially now that she suspects. He doubts the little Diggle-in-the-Hood masquerade fooled her. Not for the second time, anyway. This must be how Oliver slipped the police accusations the first time. Has Diggle been working with him from the beginning?

He turns to ask Diggle a quiet question, but the man is gone—gone just as quietly as Oliver had after he helped save Tommy's father's life.

Tommy sighs to himself, and slowly climbs the stairs, letting Laurel and Oliver have their moment. When he reaches the top, Oliver's eyes open. "Thank you for getting her to safety," he says, voice grateful, but his pupils are hard as diamonds away from Laurel's gaze.

"It's what you would have done," Tommy says.

He steps back out into the scene of destruction. Their beautiful club, only open a short while, now a mess of broken glass, bullet-pocked walls... and blood. Bodies litter the floor—some riddled with arrows, some with friendly fire. He shudders at the number. All of these men, all with families who would mourn them, all for making a bad choice today—going up against Oliver Queen.

He hears Oliver's voice, soft at his shoulder. "None of these men were innocent. And the Glades has one less upstart criminal organization to fear now."

Tommy turns, sees that Laurel is picking her way through the detritus of the dance floor to retrieve her phone. She doesn't even flinch at the dead bodies she has to step around. Tommy doesn't hide the horror on his face as he replies, "Other than threatening Laurel, I think their worst crime was that they saw your face."

Oliver's lips tighten, but he doesn't argue.

The doors behind them bang open. "Police! Stand down!" Detective Lance shouts, leading the vanguard of uniformed officers. His gun lowers when he sees the only people standing are Oliver, Tommy and Laurel. He rushes to his daughter and wraps her in a hug. Then he pulls back and turns toward Oliver and Tommy. "What happened here?"

"It was—"

"No wait, let me guess," Quentin snarks, cutting Tommy off. "Your friend in the hood?"

Oliver smiles. "Was it the arrows that tipped you off, or...?"

"Cute," Quentin growls. "If this psycho isn't a friend of yours and Merlyn's, then why does he keep saving your asses?"

Oliver shrugs. "Clean living?"

"And mine, Dad," Laurel reminds him. "Don't forget how many times he's saved me, too."

"I wish I could forget it." Quentin throws a fierce look at Oliver and adds, "It probably wouldn't be necessary if you kept better company."

"Dad..." she warns him, like this is an argument they've already beaten to death.

But Tommy knows Quentin is right. He and Oliver should get far, far away from her. Let her fight crime as she always has, with her wits and with the law. Searching himself, he knows that if it were best for Laurel, he could leave her be forever. But Oliver?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way Oliver's eyes never leave her, watching over her every move as if he is her personal protector.

No, Oliver will never let her go. Tommy's heart hardens with resolve. Even if she leaves him, he will always be there for her—to protect her from Oliver.

**End.**


End file.
